


In Vino Veritas

by Still_and_Clear



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sexual Tension, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-07-29 20:19:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7698079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_and_Clear/pseuds/Still_and_Clear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim and Oswald and truth and lies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Vino Veritas

**Author's Note:**

> This has been hanging about in drafts forever. I love drunk Oswald, but the story stalled badly and took ages to figure out. I hope you enjoy it, Gobblepotters :)

Noise, and light. Far, far too much noise and light, and neither of them welcome.

Oswald squeezed his eyes tightly shut in a vain bid to shut out the light peeking between his lashes – sending little shards to lodge in his brain.

The noise, he slowly realises, is the sound of the rain beating insistently against his bedroom window.

He groans and then curses, pressing the heels of his hands against his temples.

He has no recollection of _what_ exactly he had drunk so much of last night – but when he remembers, he decides, he is going to _purge_ the bar of it, and forbid it on the premises ever again. His _head_ …

There’s a knock at the door. Not keen to yell, and invite another bolt of pain through his head, he slithers to the edge of the bed and levers himself unsteadily to his feet – trying desperately to avoid jolting his aching head.

He’s ready at the door just as it’s knocked again. He weighs up the satisfaction of stabbing whoever is responsible for that noise against what the jolting of the movement would do to his headache, and decides against it.

He opens the door slowly. Squinting against the light, he sees Gabe standing there apologetically, with a prairie oyster cocktail in his hand. 

‘Gabe’, he says, taking the glass from him with an unsteady hand, ‘you are indispensable.’

‘Yep.’ The big man nods in agreement. ‘Gordon said you’d likely be hungover to hell this morning – and I figured you’d want this.’

The glass freezes in mid-air and Oswald’s eyes dart – which is painful, he finds – back to Gabe’s face.

‘Jim Gordon was here last night?’

Gabe grins. ‘Jeez, boss, you must’ve really been…’

‘ _Why_ was he here?’ 

‘Came by for business. Think you’d already had a few. I asked if you were sure you were OK to talk with him…’

‘How long was he here?’

‘Well, you stayed at the bar for a while…’

‘While? More than…’ He racked his brain to think of Jim’s longest visit to date. ‘More than half an hour?’

‘’Bout an hour in the bar, I’d say’, said Gabe.

Oswald felt a rising panic that did not sit well with his nausea.

Gabe hadn’t finished talking. ‘Then you came up here…’

Alarm bells were sounding loudly in Oswald’s head.

‘…maybe for another hour?’

Oswald limped over to the couch and sat down heavily – his head resting in his hands.

‘You should drink that, boss. Fix you up.’

Oswald drinks it obediently, in a kind of haze. He looks up at Gabe plaintively. 

‘Couldn’t you have reasoned with me? Convinced me that talking to him when I was drunk was risky?’

Gabe spread his hands, eyes wide. To be fair, Oswald was aware that he could be… difficult to reason with – even when he wasn’t fantastically drunk. He rubs his hand over his eyes.

‘Who _knows_ what I might have told him?’

Gabe looks thoughtful. ‘He didn’t look like he was running off to arrest no-one when he left.’

‘No?’ Oswald asked, hopefully.

‘Nah’ Gabe replies, shaking his head. ‘Did seem a little strange, though.’

Oswald’s head shot up again – a move he instantly regretted.

‘Strange how?’

Gabe looked reflective. ‘Hard to say. A little outta his depth – maybe?’

Oswald pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘I need to figure out if I’ve said something… risky. Perhaps jeopardised myself.’

The drink beginning to work its magic, he rose carefully from the couch and headed to the bathroom, for a hopefully restorative bath.

**

Jim Gordon is having a productive and efficient morning. He had risen at 6.30 and worked out before deciding to run to work. After showering and shaving, he had made his desk early, and cleared the paperwork on two cases that had been sitting on Harvey’s desk long enough to irritate him.

The morning continued in this vein: structured, diligent, controlled.

He was absolutely _not_ thinking about last night. 

By late afternoon, though, when the lack of sleep finally caught up with him, certain recollections were creeping back, ushered in by physical reminders. Jim had yawned and stretched at his desk, and brought a hand up to massage the back of his neck. This was a mistake, mistake, mistake, mistake…

**

_12 hours earlier_

**

‘Cobblepot – you’re drunk.’

Jim had never seen anyone get drunk quite like this. He’s not morose, not violent, not obnoxious or cracking jokes. He always talks too much, in Jim’s opinion, so not more talkative than usual.

No. He’s blissful, elated, giddy with it – laughing and singing and prone to flights of fancy. Jim had tried to have a serious meeting with him – tried for a good thirty minutes – even though the shine in Cobblepot’s eyes when he had arrived had told Jim that he was already drunk.

After humouring him with two glasses of champagne, and listening to yet another elaborate analysis of crime in Gotham which – while interesting – was so drink-fuelled that he couldn’t trust a word of it, Jim decided to call it a night. He’d tell Cobblepot to go up to his rooms first, though. God knows what damage he could do if someone like Maroni stopped by while he was in this state.

Cobblepot’s face lit up when Jim mentioned his rooms.

‘Jim! I’d _love_ to show you my new home…’

Jim had opened his mouth to protest – but Cobblepot continued undeterred. 

‘I have a wonderful whiskey upstairs. I’m sure you’d like it. I imagined that you’d appreciate a malt?’

Jim wondered how much time Cobblepot had spent wondering about what drinks he liked. What he liked.

He didn’t have much time to ponder that, though, since Cobblepot has risen unsteadily and is attempting to usher him from his chair – the hand that had rested briefly on his shoulder now plucking at his sleeve.

There doesn’t seem to be much point in arguing. Jim has dealt with enough drunks to know that it was easier to go along with their whims - especially one like this, that he suspected Cobblepot had nursed for a while.

He glances at his watch as he follows Cobblepot. After midnight, now. Not that anyone’s waiting up for him. As he follows him upstairs, he finds himself intermittently pressing a light hand between Cobblepot’s shoulder blades to propel him safely upwards – the combination of alcohol and his limp making for an unsteady, listing climb upstairs.

After Cobblepot has fumbled with his keys, they finally open the door to his rooms. Oswald flicks the lights on and gestures grandly as they enter. He’s grinning widely at Jim.

‘Do you like it?’

He… he does – surprisingly. It’s all dark wood and angular lines. Prints of the city here and there. 

Jim nods awkwardly to Cobblepot. ‘It’s, uh… nice, yes.’

The grin becomes positively manic. Cobblepot presses a hand over his heart and hobbles closer to Jim.

‘Mi casa es su casa’

The hand that’s not resting on his heart taps Jim’s chest to emphasise his sincerity, before turning towards the small kitchen – time for more booze, presumably.

‘I have a special bottle. I _think_ you’ll like it.’ He waves a thin hand vaguely. ‘Please, sit down.’

The sofa is comfortable – more than his, Jim thinks. He seems to end up crashing on his own couch a lot these days. Getting home tired, working more than his shifts, choosing to come to meetings like this one on his downtime. Lack of structure, he guesses. He…

His thoughts are cut short by Cobblepot placing their glasses on the low coffee table in front of him. He’s poured Jim a generous double, a triple, actually. Jim is eyeing it dubiously when he feels Cobblepot drop onto the couch beside him. He’s too close – but that’s to be expected from him, sober or drunk.

Cobblepot raises his glass to him. Jim awkwardly raises his glass in turn. He takes a sip, and a little hum of approval escapes his throat without his permission. His eyes snap open in embarrassment, only to find Cobblepot watching him with that _look_. He’s tried to define it before – but usually always abandons the effort, troubled by the answers. Fond? Indulgent? Affectionate? All of these? And laced with a hunger that makes Jim turn away, or flush, or clear his throat – never clear if Cobblepot was aware of how obvious he was, manipulative and shrewd as he was everywhere else.

He swallows, and watches Cobblepot’s slightly unfocused eyes follow the movement at his throat.

‘How is your new home?’

‘Sorry?’ asks Jim, distracted, too busy watching Cobblepot watch him. ‘How did you…?’

Cobblepot shrugs, swirling his drink in his glass. ‘Your engagement ended. Your apartment was obviously not that of a GCPD officer – not even a detective, and definitely not an honest detective. You must have had to move.’

Jim snorts bitterly. ‘Honest detective? I can’t claim that anymore.’ 

Cobblepot rolls his eyes exaggeratedly. ‘Who can? As long as you’re honest where it matters.’

The whiskey is warming Jim’s chest nicely and loosening his tongue. He curls his lip. ‘And where are you honest?’

Cobblepot’s eyebrows rise at that, and he has the nerve to look mildly hurt – like Jim has blundered in a friendly conversation, like this isn’t a grubby business arrangement, like he hadn’t dragged Jim up here to humour his drunken delusions. 

‘I’m honest with myself’ he replies. ‘I’m honest when it’s important…’

‘It’s _always_ important’, Jim mutters, frowning down at his glass.

‘Not _always_ ’ Cobblepot argues. ‘And stubborn honesty when a lie would be more sensible is simply foolish.’

His cheeks are pink from the whiskey and conviction in his own words. Cobblepot has angled his body sideways to face him, like he often does - _open, trusting body language_ , his training reminds him – while Jim remains stubbornly facing forward. The scotch making its way through his system is tugging insistently at his right shoulder, now, telling him to face him, give into a long-buried, finely-controlled urge to stand _closer_ – like proximity might make Cobblepot easier to understand, like it might help Jim understand this itch he’s had for months, now.

He relaxes his shoulder and opens his posture towards him a little. Just a little.

Cobblepot’s drink is resting on his knee, and he’s smiling at Jim. He looks contented – strange, in such a twitchy, grasping little man. Looking at him, Jim feels a sense of something…unavoidable, something that’s been a long time coming, and finds himself opening his mouth to talk and fill the silence in the room and stall it.

‘When I was 15…’ 

Cobblepot’s eyes light up at the prospect of actual conversation. He leans his head to rest propped against his hand, elbow on the back of the low couch, settling down to listen.

Jim’s eye slides along the side of his pale neck before flitting away.

‘When I was 15’ he repeats, ‘I decided it would be a smart idea to break into my parents’ drinks cabinet.’ His eyes drift over to the corner of the room, remembering vividly how the carved door had felt under his hands, and the popping sound the lock had made after he successfully picked it.

‘There was scotch – but that tasted gross to me then. And vodka, that was worse…’

There’s a huff of amusement from Cobblepot at that, and Jim takes another warming sip before turning finally round to face him fully, allowing it, just for tonight.

‘But cherry brandy – that was sweet enough. And the crème de menthe….God’ He smirks at the memory. ‘I’ve never been so sick in my life.’

His mother had been livid, and gone along with his stepfather’s punishment. Jim was ‘acting out’, so _angry,_ still angry about his father’s death…

Jim took a longer pull from his glass this time, relishing the burn in his throat.

Cobblepot laughs. ‘Have you ever drunk cherry brandy since?’

Jim can’t hide a small, rueful smile as he shakes his head. Even the sight of the stuff makes his stomach churn.

Cobblepot shifts forward minutely.

‘The first time I indulged…’ he says, dreamily.

Is Jim really going to do this? Sit here and trade drunken stories with Oswald Cobblepot? 

Apparently he is.

‘I had been watching old movies on TV.’ He smiles widely. ‘Old black and white movies where they wore tuxedos and drank champagne in nightclubs. When my mother left to run some errands, I went to the kitchen cupboard where she kept sweet sherry…’

Jim’s mouth twists into a wry half smile. Oswald laughs again.

‘Yes, exactly. I was so _ill_. Fortunately, I was also very spoiled, and my mother treated me like an invalid and kept me home from school for a day.’

He looks genuinely mournful for a moment.

‘I had even changed into my very best clothes to do it, too. My Sunday school suit. And I was so _sick_.’

Jim can’t suppress a snort of laughter at his, inhibitions wobbly from the booze.

‘It’s not funny, Jim!’ Oswald protests, but he’s laughing as he says it.

Jim recovers himself – laugh petering out as Oswald’s does likewise. They’re left looking at each other on the couch. Cobblepot is still grinning, eyes glazed – still drunk out of his mind. Jim’s own smile is disappearing. He’s been here before with other people – sloppy drunk, late at night, sitting too close on the couch. His body is prodding at him for what would usually come next. Move closer. Deliberately bump knees. Stretch an arm out along the back of the couch to brush his neck.

But he can’t do any of that, and he’s terrifingly aware now that part of him _wants_ to do that, and what the hell he’s supposed to do with that he doesn’t know. 

‘Another drink!’ Oswald announces, with a flourish. He gets up unsteadily from the couch.

‘I should go’ says Jim, alcohol and fear and confusion settling coldly into the pit of his stomach.

Oswald doesn’t seem to hear this.

‘I have every drink you can think of. Except sherry.’ He giggles manically at his own joke. And I will pour every bottle of cherry brandy in the bar down the drain, I promise.’ He turns to Jim and smiles sweetly. ‘But now – champagne!’ 

He spins on the spot, giddy and celebratory. Jim gets up hurriedly, feeling the scotch rush to his head as he does.

‘Careful.’ 

Oswald is still spinning unsteadily on the spot. Jim steps closer – convinced he’s going to fall. 

Oswald, startled by his sudden proximity, does stumble, grabbing Jim’s shoulders for balance and Jim’s hands grip his waist. It’s warm under his hands, and narrow, and his shirt is ruffled and untidy around his suspenders.

‘Careful’, he repeats.

Oswald smiles stupidly at him again, and slides his hands from Jim’s shoulders up round his neck. Jim should move, knows he should move, but can’t seem to manage it. Cobblepot, meanwhile, moves closer and closer, eyes fluttering shut, until he’s finally close enough to press a light kiss to Jim’s mouth.

It’s nothing, really – not heavy or demanding. If anything, it’s tentative, clumsy, tugging at his conscience and asking inconvenient questions. As Cobblepot pulls away, Jim instinctively deepens it slightly, just a _little_ before they part.

Cobblepot sighs as he steps back, eyes still closed. Opening them, his hands slide slowly down the sides of Jim’s arms, and he smiles again. 

‘Now. The champagne.’

Jim forces himself to take his hands from Cobblepot’s waist.

‘You’ve had too much. You should go to bed.’ He aims for brusque, but he’s not sure he achieves it. 

Cobblepot blinks at him, confused by his sudden change in tone, but acquiesces - and that must be a sign of how drunk he is - that he doesn't even try to wheedle and negotiate prolonging the evening.

‘You’re right, of course, Jim.’ He pats Jim’s chest before turning round and heading waveringly for what Jim supposes is his bedroom. As he opens the door he stumbles again, and Jim moves to walk behind him – just in case.

Jim flicks the light on as they enter. Cobblepot sits heavily on the bed, sliding shoes off, eyes closing already.

‘Here’ Jim says, stepping towards him and loosening his necktie.

Oswald yawns wide enough to make his jaw pop.

‘Aren’t you tired, Jim? You can stay here.’

‘I’ll be fine.’

Oswald is too drunk to argue, but manages a final piece of hospitable solicitousness as he lies back on the bed, one hand automatically resting on his bad knee as he straightens out.

‘Ask Gabe to drive you to…’

His voice trails off as the darkened room and soft bed do their work. Jim stands for a moment, looking down at him, before turning on his heel and leaving without looking back. He brushes off Gabe’s offer of a drive home as he leaves, saying he’ll get a cab.

He doesn’t get a cab, deliberately walks. The night air is cold and damp, numbing his face and hands – but it can’t quite erase the warmth lingering on his mouth, or the memory of hands sliding across the back of his neck.

**

And there it is again, the ghost of that touch, as Jim stands at his desk, trying to massage knots of exhaustion from the back of his neck.

**

Oswald feels slightly better after his bath – by no means entirely restored – but somewhat closer to his normal self.

Snippets of the night before are beginning to return to him now. He seems to recall explaining his grand unified theory of all crime in Gotham – which was most definitely an unwise amount of information to share, even with a dear old friend. But he also has a fairly vivid memory of being stared at dubiously, so perhaps Jim had dismissed that as mere drunken folly.

He can’t quite remember how he persuaded Jim to come up to his private rooms – which he is kicking himself for, if he’s honest, because if it turns out he hasn’t incriminated himself horribly in some way, then he would like very much to repeat the experience.

And then… an infuriating blank. His best whiskey is out on the counter, as well as two glasses – but that’s the only trace.

He supposes that an apology is likely to be in order – a whole visit with nothing useful exchanged, well – not that Jim had been aware of, mercifully. Perhaps offering an actual piece of information might sweeten the apology? He rummages in his brain for something suitable. Ah. Yes. A mid-level dealer who had become rather creative with what he was selling to his customers. An irritation to responsible business-owners such as himself, as well as the police. He reaches for the phone, and mouths to Gabe to put some coffee on.

**

Jim can feel a prickling between his shoulder blades as he enters the room. He looks round for Cobblepot, usually instantly recognisable – but can’t spot him immediately. As he glances round, he feels a light tap on his shoulder, and turns to see Gabe looming over him.

‘Boss is a little under the weather. You can find him upstairs.’

Jim nods tightly and heads up.

**

Oswald fusses with the coffee pot. It is very pretty, and very unusual, and very valuable, and there is absolutely no need for Jim to know how he obtained it.

There’s a knock at the door, and Oswald rises hurriedly to let him in, opening the door with a smile. He’s keen to ensure that this goes well, that he can smooth over anything… unfortunate that may have occurred. Not that the smile is fake, not at all: he’s never quite learned to master the rush he feels when he sees Jim Gordon. He should, really, should have tried _much_ harder - it’s dangerous for a man in his position, clouds his judgement – but even though he’s self-disciplined, and can do without when he must, he relishes his few pleasures, and Jim is undoubtedly one of those pleasures.

‘Jim. Please come in. Coffee?’

Jim is eyeing him rather oddly – more warily than usual? His eyes seem to land on him and dart off moments later, flickering round the room.

They sit down together at the small table. Now they’re a little closer, Oswald can see that Jim is pale, eyes a little bloodshot. His concern overrides his good sense for a moment. 

‘You look tired, Jim’

Jim’s eyes snap up to his like he can’t quite believe what he just said. Oswald squirms, clearly missing vital information.

**

Jim stares at him. He had thought – for a split second – that he was mocking him, but now he looks closely at Cobblepot – a weak smile twitching on his face, fingers fidgeting with his cup – it dawns on Jim. _He can’t remember._ He was so drunk he can’t remember – not any of it. Jim had spent last night sleepless, fretting over consequences, and kept an iron grip on his mind all day – and Cobblepot was blissfully ignorant and it was all _his_ damn fault in the first place.

Tiredness and righteous indignation seem to have chipped at his self-control, and Jim can’t quite restrain himself.

‘Unbelievable!’

Cobblepot’s eyes widen.

‘You don’t remember a damn thing!’

His mouth opens and closes, but he only manages to stammer out a couple of words.

‘I… I… Jim…’

Jim’s eyes narrow. ‘You’re trying to figure out if you told me something important? Something incriminating? You didn’t.’

Oswald’s eyes track desperately from side to side, wracking his brain.

‘Then I’ve offended you, somehow! Please! Tell me what I said. I’ll apologise. I was so drunk… I didn’t mean it!’

For some reason, this does not soothe Jim’s temper. He should be celebrating this – the opportunity to sweep it all neatly back under the carpet. God knows he does it with everything else. But this – this is different. It doesn’t seem _fair_ , somehow, that he should carry the information about last night alone. That’s not how they work, him and Cobblepot. Not the rules they agreed upon, unspoken. If one knows a secret, the other knows it too.

He sits back down and folds his arms, fixing Cobblepot with a stare that he’d usually use on a suspect while he was explaining exactly how he’d caught them out.

‘You got drunk for the first time after watching old movies. You changed into your church clothes, stole your mom’s sherry, and then threw up down the front of your own suit.’

Cobblepot couldn’t have looked more surprised if he had tried – but by the time Jim is done, a smile is starting to spread across his face. He _likes_ that Jim knows something about him – something harmless, but intimate.

The knot of anger in Jim’s chest loosens slightly, despite his folded arms and set jaw. He watches as Cobblepot’s eyes spark.

‘Cherry brandy.’ He says, slowly. ‘You got drunk on cherry brandy when you were 15.’

‘And crème de menthe.’ Jim adds, automatically. 

Oswald’s brow creases suddenly. ‘That’s it? That’s why you’re so furious? Because we had one drink too many and traded stories?’

Jim shakes his head, lets his shoulders drop – Cobblepot’s confused hurt dampening his anger. He’ll keep the rest to himself, brood over it when he’s alone. Safer, he supposes – even though carrying it alone still feels oddly wrong. 

‘No – look – it’s fine. You were drunk. No harm done.’

Cobblepot won’t leave it alone, though, never did know when to quit.

‘But there _was_ harm done, clearly. I…’

Jim rises abruptly. ‘Look, I said leave it…’ 

Cobblepot stands too, the movement slightly more unbalanced than usual because he uses the low couch for purchase. He points at Jim as he gets up.

‘ _You_ said it was important to be honest at all times!’ Typical - that he would remember what suits him. His tone is accusatory. Frustrated.

Jim rubs a hand against his neck, exasperated. It reminds him of Cobblepot’s hand again and he pulls his fingers away like they’ve been burnt. His own temper is fraying, now – hungover and tired. He shakes his head, and turns to make for the door and get out of there. 

‘You’re a hypocrite, Jim. So much for honesty.’ 

He’s spitting that at him like Jim has somehow incriminated himself with those words. Jim starts towards the door, temper on a knife-edge, now. 

‘ _Don’t_ walk away from me!’ 

There’s a whine in his voice that Jim knows travels alongside rage in this man. He ignores him, takes a stride towards the door before a hand grasps hard at his shoulder, tipping his temper just over the edge, sending a thrill up his neck. Control in tatters now, he turns and grabs Cobblepot’s waist hard – glares at him, and waits to see the light flick on in his sharp eyes. 

There’s a moment where Cobblepot stares at him wide-eyed, before comprehension lights in his eyes. _Finally,_ Jim can see that he remembers, and even though Jim knows that this situation is the fucking definition of ‘dangerous’, and that Oswald will _never_ retreat from newly won territory - the ground still seems more solid under his feet now that the secret's shared, even as he waits to see how he'll react, his muscles taut with the strain of not retreating, not advancing. 

** 

Oswald is close enough that he can see the muscle working in Jim’s jaw. The hands grasping his waist _hard_ feel good, so good, and Oswald wants very badly to kiss him again. Expose the truth. He could. Jim would let him, he can tell. He’s good at knowing how far he can push his luck, what people want. 

Still. Even with his heart slamming in his chest, his head runs just as fast – grasping after long-term advantage. He _could_ kiss him now. While they’re both hungover, and Jim is angry and confused. One kiss, or maybe more, then a hasty retreat from Jim. A prolonged drunken error of judgment that they’ll never discuss again, and the repetition of which Jim would be careful to avoid in future – no more late night meetings alone, no more drinks. Maybe even lingering guilt, ruining everything. 

Or he could play a long game. To their mutual advantage. Because he _is_ good for Jim – he _knows_ he is, has always known. He's Jim's only real friend. Who understood the city and could do what he couldn’t - who would never turn him away, no matter what sins he committed. Jim could have kept quiet about this - Oswald didn't believe that it was only Jim's insistence on honesty that made him confess. He wanted Oswald to know. Needed him to know. Oswald would show now him now that this trust was justified, show him what a good friend he could be. He'd prove that he had Jim's best interests at heart. He would _not_ immediately take this thing that he wanted so much, _so_ much. He would wait. He would slowly wind more bonds around them both, draw Jim tighter, and tighter until they were here again - this close, this desperate - but with no excuses, no way back. 

He raises a shaky hand to the side of Jim’s face. 

‘In vino veritas, Jim.' He smiles weakly. 'I… I don’t deny that I care for... well – you must have suspected…’ 

Jim reddens. 

‘I don’t presume to know your feelings, or ask…‘ He sighs. ‘But I can... this is just, something that happened between friends who had had a little too much to drink.’ He smiles sweetly at him. 

Jim exhales. There’s relief on his face at this temporary reprieve, but Oswald can see disappointment in his eyes, too, that makes him congratulate his own judgment. Last night’s drunken kiss, apparently a source of confusion and shame, has now been supplanted by the memory of this kiss denied. A kiss that Jim knows Oswald wanted, but turned down out of care for him. A kiss that Jim wanted, clear-headed, and will lie now at the back of his head like a promise, whispering to him when Oswald isn't there. 

He ushers Jim to sit down, and pours them both coffee. They watch each other over the top of their cups. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you got this far, then thank-you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. 
> 
> This started out pretty fluffy, but was getting absolutely nowhere for ages until Oswald was allowed to be his manipulative, sly self. I honestly don't think he sees the irony in being manipulative to demonstrate to Jim that he's trustworthy. :D
> 
> Happy to chat in the comments :)


End file.
